


Cowboy

by dr_zook



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BAMF bottom!Arthur, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No plot. Arthur is infuriated with Eames and decides to act upon it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cowboy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauand/gifts).



> This is, by far, the cheesiest title I could have thought of, seriously. It's like Manowar, but as fanfic, right? Anyway, you waited so long for this, lauand! I hope it doesn't ruin your Christmas. :D

He doesn't know why they ended up like this: propped up against the hallway walls, facing each other and breathing heavily.  
  
Eames' clothes are strewn around them – all of them except for the stray sock that refused to part from his right foot. He remembers the distasteful flicker of Arthur's eyes as he had stumblingly tried to heel out of his Budapest shoes. Can't be because of the neon-green and yellow paisley pattern that's woven into them, can it?  
  
"Shed it," Arthur commands, still clothed in an almost creepily proper way, yet shoe- and sockless himself. He's looking appalled at Eames' paisley foot slithering from Arthur's knee up his firm and lovely thigh, towards the groin. He can see that Arthur is at least half-hard by now; it's a small victory for Eames. His own cock is lying heavily on his hip.  
  
Eames grins. He puts his foot closer to its goal, until Arthur snarls and reaches for the offensive body part. But Eames is faster, his bottom slithers on the soft rug towards the object of his affections: his legs flare wider in a rather obscene move (it makes the point-man lick his bottom lip), both his feet taking lovely Arthur off-guard and pinning his wrists close to his head to the wall.  
  
Arthur's surprised huff transforms into a groan.  
  
"Come on, darling," Eames beams, his legs spread wider. "Be nice to the sock, will you?"  
  
"Fuck you," Arthur grits, and then his own feet shoot forward, aiming for Eames' neck. Arthur’s wrists must be painfully held up by now because Eames' legs don't slacken. Yet.  
  
Arthur's filigree toes wrap themselves around Eames' throat, not really hurting but threatening. Promising.  
  
"Arthur," Eames sighs, feeling his pulse throb against the tender skin of Arthur's feet. And then, "Oh God, please would you touch yourself?"  
  
Tentatively he loosens the socked foot and gives his own cock a few strokes. The spite and lust caught in the corners of Arthur's mouth fuel his need.  
  
Eames' hopes had come down crumbling when Arthur came knocking at his hotel room. Their last job was done and everybody had ended up at the bar afterwards; eventually Eames got too friendly again with Arthur – or at least he pissed off Arthur one last crucial time? Because the point-man then turned in early, leaving behind a couple of raised eyebrows.  
  
And then: "Stop fucking courting me, Eames. For fuck's sake, it's unbelievably ridiculous," he had hissed later at Eames, firmly planted in his doorway. His shirt arms were rolled up and he was barefooted; his knocking had been furious.  
  
Eames then had thrown up his hands, wanted to apologize, but Arthur just pushed inside, inside, pushed Eames against the hallway and started to undress him. Or, no – he started to rip off his clothes.  
  
Eames, of course, didn't protest at all. Hell, he had to stop himself from chuckling all the time. Arthur's reprimanding gaze told him as much.  
  
"I should have tried to lick your ear _years_ ago, Arthur," he couldn’t help himself acknowledging when Arthur yanked down his slacks. His hands couldn't exactly participate because they had to stabilize him in the hallway, one against the wall, the other leaning on Arthur's shoulder.  
  
"Fuck you," Arthur snarled from below, wrestling with the cloth.  
  
"Go easy on the goods, will you?"  
  
And now, look at them. How they pierce each other with hungry gazes, kept in place. Muscles taut, couching the other ready to pounce.  
  
"Come on," Eames growls. "I want to see all of you." A lazy tug at his cock.  
  
Arthur mutters obscenities. His released hand crawls to his belt, opens it deftly, zips down the fly, and unbuttons his slacks. Crawls inside to retrieve his own cock, and it is just as lovely as Eames always imagines.  
  
"Excellent," Eames sighs, his throat feeling tight not only because of the proximity of Arthur's feet to it. Their rather gentle shove compels him to stretch his neck farther. To improve their access. He doesn't miss Arthur’s gaze on him; it tells him he's at a loss with both Eames and himself.  
  
"Why?" Arthur eventually grits. It's difficult to get a good hold on his dick and keep Eames in his place at the same time. When exactly had this turned into some gymnastic display? But all Arthur wants to know is, "Why couldn’t you just have stopped it?"  
  
Eames has to laugh. " _Stop it_ ," he echoes. “Oh, Arthur, we haven't even started yet." One of Arthur's feet has slipped closer to Eames' chin, who now tilts his head slightly so he can nibble at the next best toe. Also promising, which is actually what Eames settles for.  
  
Arthur hisses and with a final shove against Eames' shoulders he disentangles from Eames' other foot and kneels long enough between the other's splayed thighs to wriggle out of his trousers. Some skeins of his slicked-back hair stick from where they are supposed to be - at least probably in Arthur's book.  
  
Eames wonders what Arthur's hair would look like if it were ever to be left untamed, dried in the open air. Would there be curls, gamey or tiny? He groans.  
  
Arthur's current movements indicate that he wants to shuck out of his waistcoat. Eames grabs one of his delicate hands, holds his heated gaze, shakes slowly his head. "No, leave it on," he says. Hunger connects the syllables.  
  
Arthur stares at him, the buttons of the waistcoat forgotten. "Can't make up your mind, huh?" There, the first hint of benevolent amusement drips from his tongue since he had appeared here.  
  
But Eames can, the half-disheveled appearance crawling onto his lap is proof enough. "I think I cannot handle all of your naked glory at once," thus he tells Arthur. "I want you now, like this." He allows his fingers to finally glide over Arthur's skin, where his buttocks meet the small of his back, crawling beneath the cloth of Arthur's tastefully striped button-down. "I want you to ride me," he murmurs into Arthur's smooth chest.  
  
The other snorts. "Really? You don't care for what I want?"  
  
"Tell me," Eames asks his skin. He can't believe he's really, actually grabbing Arthur's perfect, perky buttocks without his hands getting chopped off within the next heartbeats.  
  
"Lay back," Arthur orders and glides his fingers into Eames' hair, yanks softly his head back, so he can look him in the eyes. "I'm gonna ride you, Mr Eames."  
  
Eames swallows the snarky remark and groans instead. He is pushed back further, one of his slippers is poking into his left kidney, but he couldn't care less, because there squirms proper, lovely Arthur on top of his pelvis, so that Eames' excited dick is fondly rubbing against Arthur's balls.  
  
He feels like thrown back into his teenage days, madly hungry for friction, _any_ goddamned friction. He won't last long, but from the looks of it Arthur doesn't fare better: his hair has unravelled some more, his eyes are half-shut and there is his trademark sneer gracing his lips. Eames almost comes from that look alone.  
  
With his left hand Arthur props himself up against Eames' chest, and with his right he jacks off furiously, also in teenage speed. His breath comes in short gasps, it's seasoned with curses aimed against Eames and, well, his parentage. Red splotches of excitement appear on his neck and shoulders, his cheeks, too.  
  
"Please," Eames eventually moans. Arthur's weight on his trapped pelvis isn't enough for him. "Christ, let me get off as well."  
  
"Tsk," Arthur hisses - and then, to their both surprise, his breathing hitches and he comes, splattering allover Eames' belly and chest, his left hand holding tightly onto Eames' skin, leaving marks.  
  
"Oh," Eames huffs, and his hips start rutting against Arthur in earnest, his fingers cling to Arthur's bottom, keeping him at least where he is. And then, after three, four more desperate thrusts he surges against the rest of Arthur, who even clings back to him, and finally comes; he feels it instantly seep into his own pubic hair, and it glues together the top of his thighs and Arthur's ass.  
  
He never thought it would feel _that_ good.


End file.
